The barn is quiet.
Amber rays filled with dust,
dancing near a window pane.
A pig grunts.
Chickens strut closer,
hoping for grain.
Corn is scattered in the hay.
The pig looks up,
distrusting, yet curious.
I stay away,
from the untamed swine.
I walk to the field,
watching cows graze in the lush grass.
Black bodies amble in unison,
toward the fence.
Wet noses greet me, tails swish.
Scratching their heads.
I wince at their misguided trust,
yet admire them for it.
To me, they are friends,
to others, they are meat.
My grandfather scolds me,
for being too attached.
I know the outcome.
The eventual heartbreak.
And each visit, I count them,
fearing there will be one less.
